Andrew Price - Without A Hitch

Pierce pounded the table. “Outrageous! What’s your basis for this slanderous assertion?!”

“I have no obligation to tell you, just to notify you of the defense,” Beckett replied coolly.

Sutherlin looked over his glasses at Beckett. “You are standing on very thin ice, Mr. Beckett. Make sure you know what you’re doing. I will not grant you any leeway to go on any fishing expeditions, nor will I allow unsupported assertions of that type to be made in my courtroom. Do you hear me, Mr. Beckett?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Beckett said unmoved.

Corbin and Beckett rode down alone in the elevator. Beaumont was safely back in the holding cell in the private corridor.

“Are we really going with the set up theory?” Corbin asked.

“No, there’s no evidence to support it.”

“Then why mention it? I thought Sutherlin was gonna shit himself.”

“It was aimed at Webb. If I read my players right, Pierce will send Morales to lean on Webb to find out what we know. That might be exactly what we need to shake him up.”

“High risk.”

“Calculated risk,” Beckett countered.

“Since we can’t get their expert to testify, are we going to ask for the gun and checkbooks to have our own expert run fingerprint tests?”

“No. We can’t be sure there aren’t fingerprints, and I don’t want to open that can of worms. I was hoping Sutherlin would give us an easy victory, but he didn’t fall for it.”

“So we let the issue drop?”

“Pretty much.”

The smell of diesel exhaust filled the bus. Corbin and Beckett nearly flew out of their seats as the bus slammed into a pothole. The Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority, “SEPTA” or “Septic” as the locals called it, was bad, but the streets were worse. Corbin and Beckett were returning from their latest visit with Beaumont. Because of the new charges Pierce added, Pierce now upped his demand, insisting that Beaumont agree to serve at least twenty-five years as part of any plea deal. Beaumont shot this down angrily, as predicted. He would agree to serve two years, but no more. Pierce would never accept that, so Corbin and Beckett resigned themselves to getting ready for trial, which was just over a week away. Consequently, they were spending a lot of time with Beaumont, who finally understood the danger to himself. This made him angrier, but it also made him more cooperative, because it was dawning on him just how much he needed Corbin and Beckett’s help. Nevertheless, Beaumont and Corbin still could not get along.

“By the way,” Beckett said between bounces, “we’re about to get a huge break.” Beckett’s tone reflected the current truce in their relationship, a truce which allowed them to work together to prepare for trial, but which left no doubt things were not well between them.

“Been calling the psychic hotline?”

“Webb called my cell last night.”

Corbin perked up considerably. “What’d he say?”

“He didn’t. He called once and hung up with only one ring. Then he called a second time about twenty minutes later. He waited for it to start recording before he hung up.”

“And you think this means what?”

“It means he’s about to break. I think his conscience is wearing on him and he needs to talk.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Only time will tell. But maybe, just maybe, we can give him a push.”

“How do we do that?”

“I have an idea.”

Both men braced for another bump.

Paul Webb stood at the convenience store’s “coffee bar.” His radio crackled at his belt. He had to meet his new partner in a few minutes, but as he stirred the last of the creamer into his coffee, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“I want you to listen to me, that’s all,” Beckett said. “You don’t need to say a word, just listen.”

Webb turned to face Beckett. “I got nothing to say to you.”

“You don’t need to say anything. I just want you to listen,” Beckett repeated.

“How did you find me?” Webb was annoyed.

“Pure accident. I saw you walking into the store as I was on my way to the office. I thought this would be a good chance to talk.” Beckett didn’t tell Webb that he and Corbin followed Webb from the station. Corbin waited outside in the car.

Webb stirred his coffee several times before responding. “I walked out that door a minute ago, you understand? You never saw me here.”

“I understand,” Beckett assured him.

“In two minutes, I’m gone.”

“All right, we know your partner framed Beaumont.”

Webb’s lips instantly curled into a snarl and he started to walk off.

“Hold on, hold on,” Beckett said to him. “Hear me out.”

Webb stopped. He stirred his coffee again and tried to look indifferent, though he came across more as pensive and torn.

“I’m sure he told you this was ok because Beaumont’s a bad guy. He probably told you Beaumont killed two women, one named Letricia Gittner and the other named Mona Hampton. He probably told you how Beaumont beat the rap on both murders.”

Webb didn’t move.

“I’m not saying Russell lied, but he is mistaken. Look at the splatter pattern and compare it to the final report. You’ll see Beaumont was sitting on the couch when the first shot was fired. That was the shot that killed Letricia Gittner. Beaumont couldn’t have fired that shot. It had to be Mona Hampton. You’ll also see the second shot, the one that killed Hampton, came from below. She was on her knees by the body. She pointed the gun at herself in an upward position and pulled the trigger herself. Beaumont may be an asshole, but he’s no killer.”

Webb rolled his eyes without moving his head.

“It’s one thing to frame a guilty man, something I’m sure you’re not happy about in the first place, but it’s quite another to set up an innocent man.”

Webb looked at his watch. Without a word, he walked to the counter, paid for his drink, and left. He never looked back.

With three days left before the trial, Corbin found himself in Washington, standing on the doorstep of Molly’s apartment. It’s never wise to take time off right before a trial, but Corbin had no choice. Molly chose today as the day she needed the ride, and her timing was suspicious. Moreover, something about her claim that she would be staying with relatives in Trenton during the week simply didn’t ring true to Corbin. It sounded to him like the prosecutor was putting her up in a hotel. Originally, Corbin hoped to distract Molly from finishing the journey. He considered pretending to run out of gas near Baltimore or stopping at a mall or restaurant and wasting so much time that she would decide against continuing on to Philadelphia. But he realized those were ill-conceived and unworkable plans, so he weighed darker options.

Corbin knocked on Molly’s door. He felt the gun tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket. His car was parked outside the low-rise apartment complex, about a dozen feet away.

A few moments later, Molly opened the door. She wore a light-blue sweater and a gray hounds-tooth skirt. Except for her stockings, she was barefoot and she wore no jewelry. “Hey, come on in. I’m almost ready,” Molly said, as she walked to her bedroom. “I’ll be back in a minute. You just stand there looking pretty.”

Corbin stepped into the one-bedroom apartment and closed the door. It was somewhat dark with a curtain drawn over the glass door that led to a patio. The patio was to Corbin’s right, past a television and a tan sofa. The kitchen was behind an island to his left. Molly’s bedroom was straight ahead, behind a partially closed door. On the kitchen counter lay fruit, a cell phone and photographs of several children. Presumably, these were the nieces and nephews Molly occasionally mentioned. On the wall above the television hung a large print of a sailboat. Corbin hadn’t expected that, as she’d never mentioned any affinity for water. The other wall was bare. An end table stood next to the sofa. On it sat a bulging black purse about the height and length of a newspaper. Corbin remembered seeing her carry it on her shoulder at the office. A carry-on suitcase stood next to the table, which presumably contained her clothes for the week. A wicker chair sat in the corner by the glass door. The smell of her perfume was everywhere.